


Throw Away the Key

by wolfgirl232



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom John, M/M, Mary who's Mary?, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgirl232/pseuds/wolfgirl232
Summary: Perhaps he was imagining things, his lust-addled mind playing tricks on him, but it seemed to John that the sexual tension had been building in 221B...





	1. Slow Burn

The midnight of a swirling coat flashed through his vision. A sensation of falling, almost pleasantly, hurtling into a blue-grey sea of cold, hard intellect. Leather gloves and navy scarf. Long, lanky, pale arms encircling his shoulders, thin lips wrapped around his name. He pressed his nose into the wild hair, breathing in the scent of formaldehyde and chlorine. A button down leaving imprints in his chest, but only momentarily, as he began to finger the buttons, slipping them from them their holes. He slid his hand into the shirt beside cool skin, the smooth planes of marble shivering under his touch... Something hard pressed into his thigh. His head fell back, throat bared in submission, and a gentle tongue traced up his jugular, drawing a moan from his lips...

John sprang awoke to the sound of his own arousal. “Shit...” he mumbled, his bed sheets clinging to him stickily. Sherlock had undoubtedly heard him, and… Oh. Sherlock. He wondered briefly if he could keep a straight face long enough to duck out to the cleaners.

By the time John was dressed he had dismissed the idea. What was he worried about? He could act naturally for a few hours, no different from the last few years.

But no matter. Sherlock was settled into his usual chair in the living room, perfectly, utterly still. From his posture—his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips, his pupils blown wide, his gaze fixed on the middle distance—John knew that he could do a naked tap-dance on the threadbare carpet without drawing his attention. With his bedding stuffed into a tote bag, he swung out the door and headed for the laundromat.

 

Gaze fixed on the spinning laundry, tongue coated in the bitter flavor of cheap coffee, John let his mind run itself in circles. How long could he keep up this mad charade? It was torture, tiptoeing the line with Sherlock. Perhaps he was imagining things, his lust-addled mind playing tricks on him, but it seemed to John that the sexual tension had been building in 221B. Just yesterday, he had been cleaning up after breakfast, head bent toward the frying pan he was scrubbing, when Sherlock came half-stumbling into the kitchen, racing for the sink. He lurched forward, the overflowing beaker of mystery liquid bubbling down the drain (and over the surface of the nearly-clean pan), but the length of his body fell against John’s, his solidness against him sending a sudden shockwave of warmth and comfort and spine-tingling _want_ through John. His breath hitched, and he could have sworn that just for an instant, Sherlock lingered. He knew the man’s balance was better than that. Right? He could have pulled away as soon as the slightest contact was made. Of course, a heartbeat later Sherlock was rigidly upright and mumbling an apology for his clumsiness, but the flush was still hot on John’s neck.

He knew now that it said enough that he was still fixated on the incident. And with Sherlock on the trail of a hot new case, at least he was distracted enough to not fixate on John himself. That was when he had to be the most careful. With his mind ready to latch onto any oddity, Sherlock would suddenly remark on John’s slightest tics and mannerisms. That piercing gaze would follow him across the room.

And did John really want to change how things were anyway? His stomach churned at the idea of pushing away his best friend—more than that, someone who had become his platonic life-partner, really. Not to mention he would no longer be able to work the cases he had begun to so enjoy. The thrill of hunting down the solution to the mysteries, with Sherlock beside him, was not something he was ready to live without. What would he be then? He would live an ordinary life with ordinary people to talk to. Hell, he might even end up married to an ordinary woman with whom he would watch ordinary television and raise a brood of equally ordinary children— He shuddered slightly. He had no desire to cut out his source of all interest and excitement for life.

But it was so much more to him. And he felt so guilty for the desire that _did_ hover at the edge of his perception every waking moment. He couldn’t help but notice Sherlock in a way that made his body ache. He did a decent job of suppressing his thoughts on a daily basis, but it all broke loose in his dreams. Every night it seemed, John found Sherlock stretched over him, his lips a hair's-breadth away, his hands roving across John’s skin.

The memory of the dream itself was too much. John shook his head, cleared his throat. He pulled himself resolutely upright in the sloped plastic of the chair. He had survived one war in his life already. He was not about to lose another.


	2. Under the Ice

John’s breath billowed in front of him in the icy air. He was glad to be running, just to feel fractionally warmer. The medically-inclined part of his brain chastised him for the beads of sweat beginning to roll down his back under the thick layers of clothing, worries of hypothermia vying for his attention. But his focus was elsewhere.

The plan had gone south somehow. Sherlock was supposed to have radioed him twenty minutes ago from the warehouse, but John hadn’t begun to really worry until he heard a leering whisper through the static, just before Sherlock’s device had clicked off. The silence on the other end was one of the most terrifying things John had ever heard. And now, Sherlock was alone without coms in a warehouse with a likely desperate member of the Russian mafia.

The sprint from the dilapidated silo to the warehouse was over a stretch of rocky ground, crusted with old snow and the brittle fibers of summer’s attempts at grass. John’s legs burned as he hurtled toward the hulking building, his eyes scanning desperately for an entrance.

A flicker of movement to the left of the structure caught his eye. He could just make out the hulking shape of a man, half-carrying a limp figure. As he watched, the man kicked at the ground with his heel. As John changed his course and hurtled closer, he realized what he was watching. Having broken through the thin ice of the lake, the man gave a final tug on Sherlock’s limp body, dragging him into the water. With his foot, he nudged Sherlock in under the ice.

Suddenly the man’s head snapped up, his gaze locked on John. He turned on his heel and booked it back the short distance to the warehouse. By the time John had reached the steep bank of the lake, he could hear a car peeling out. But he no longer gave a single shit.

The edge of a black coat billowed out from under the edge of the ice. John scrambled down the incline, leaping into the water. He was only knee deep, but his breath came in ragged gasps as his nerves registered the temperature. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed at the piece of sodden wool.

Sherlock’s body slipped out from under the ice. Numb hands fisted at Sherlock’s shoulders, John hauled him up the bank, frozen mud crumbling as he struggled to find purchase. Soaking wet, Sherlock was a heavy burden as John squatted down and tried to pull him over a shoulder. Adrenaline surging through him, he grunted loudly as he rose with Sherlock in a haphazard fireman’s carry and began stumbling toward the warehouse.

It was dark inside, thin, wintry light struggling inside though the open fire door. John’s gaze darted about, looking for something, anything that he could use. In the gloom, he made out a pile of discarded packing foam, a heap of musty yellow thrust between two stacks of crates. John collapsed with his knees in the fluff, and rolled Sherlock off his shoulders.

His lips were a faint blue, the mask of calm his features had settled into only serving to make John’s heartbeat more painfully thunderous. Clinging notions of lust long forgotten, John ripped off his layers of clothing, shedding the damp fabric. Clad in only his boxer-briefs and shivering in the brittle air, his fingers began to work at the buttons of Sherlock’s coat. There was always time for apologies and awkwardness later. John let himself run on autopilot, his hands working via muscle-memory through his army field training. He stripped Sherlock, throwing the sodden layers onto the concrete floor. With Sherlock slightly lighter, John had less trouble forcing himself into the pile of foam and pulling Sherlock after him. Completely buried, he pressed the length of his body against Sherlock’s worryingly cold skin.

“You are not dying of hypothermia, Sherlock Holmes. Not on my watch, no,” John scolded, working his hands in friction-inducing circles over Sherlock’s back. “I swear to god, if you die on me I _will_ kill you.” He wrapped a leg up and over Sherlock’s hip, willing his warmth into the man.

John hissed a swear. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, squeezing his eyes shut. “Wake up,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sherlock, you—you wake up right this bloody instant.”

Sherlock’s chest heaved as he coughed, spraying water. He dragged in a ragged breath, his body shaking. One of his hands flew to John’s waist, freezing cold fingers pressing into him tightly.

Icy grey-blue eyes flicked open, a gaze of startled confusion settling on John. “Jesus, Sherlock,” John grit out, his breath leaving him.

Sherlock glanced down at their chests, pressed tightly together in the near-blackness. The fingers gripped tightly to John’s hip sprung open. John opened his mouth to launch his defense, gathering himself to insist that he had done what he thought best as a medical professional—

And then there was something. Something hard lengthening against John’s upper thigh, something that pulsed warmly and insistently. John froze.

Sherlock’s pupils dilated, his stare growing razor-sharp. Something in them glinted with an intense light, holding John captivated. He looked almost predatorily hungry, and John swallowed thickly around the sudden lump in his throat.

Sherlock closed his eyes for fraction of a second, his head shifting to the side in that way he had when he was recalibrating something. When they snapped open, his pupils had shrunk, the hardness against John’s leg receding. He cleared his throat.

“Hullo John,” he said through a tight smile.

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

“Where’s the Russian?” Sherlock demanded, beginning to scrabble out of the foam.


	3. Flintsteel

Long, thin fingers were gripping his hips, lips were at his neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks he so desperately wanted to earn. John’s back was arched, pressing his body forward, an aching heaviness in his groin. The rich familiarity of a scent surrounded him, the smell of a winter morning—cold wool and sunlight and clean air. He gasped in a breath as the fingers traced over his throat, drifting downward—

The glow of a streetlamp was filtering in through the gap in the curtains. His sheets were tangled around his body, wrapping up his right leg and around behind him. And there was someone looming over him, fingers at his hip, his neck. No, not _someone_. Breath ghosted over his mouth, heavy with the scent from his dream. _Still dreaming then_ , he reasoned. But Sherlock was there, one knee between his legs, hands pressed into the mattress on either side of his head. John met his eyes.

He snapped into full wakefulness at the expression there. Filled with the same predatory hunger as the day before, they glittered icily in the dim light, calculating, assessing. Sherlock seemed to be trying to peer between the cracks of him, to hone in on something he couldn’t quite get to. John wanted to protest, wanted to shove Sherlock away, to maintain the oh-so-precarious self-control he had managed up to this point, the protective armor he had worked so hard to construct.

John realized his body had already betrayed him. Aroused by his subconscious, John felt the weight of Sherlock’s hips pressing down against his cock. Far beyond his control, the muscles beneath his groin tensed suddenly, his pulsing length pressing against the silk of Sherlock’s nightgown.

Sherlock _moaned_. The echo of it reverberated through John’s chest, sending the blood rushing from his fingertips. Breathing was something he suddenly had to focus on. Heat went roiling through his stomach, every shred of him straining toward the sound.

He knew Sherlock noticed. He could see him zeroing in on the flush of his cheeks, his rising heart rate, the way his lips stretched thin and tight.

As if John himself was an experiment, Sherlock lowered his lips to the skin below John’s ear, grinding down with his hips. His very obvious erection pressed against John through the thin fabric. John bucked beneath him, his head falling back, heaving in a ragged gasp of air. Sherlock’s hands slid over the mattress, his fingers locking around John’s wrists.

Wide eyed, staring into the darkness at the wall above him, John made a decision. If this was Sherlock’s idea of a practical joke, or a way to kill boredom, fine. He would take it. He would selfishly indulge in what he had so desperately, pathetically been craving, and when Sherlock grew bored, perhaps he would have gotten this out of his system.

He shut out the voice in the back of his head that told him he never would.

Sherlock’s lips came down on his own, demanding and hungry. John’s mouth opened, Sherlock’s tongue flicking forward to taste, to explore. He felt himself being catalogued, his every physical aspect being stored away somewhere in Sherlock’s bank of information. Sherlock rutted forward again and John let out a breathy whimpering sound, his head falling back again.

Sherlock pulled himself upright, making quick work of the knot around his waist. He flung away the robe, and John had just a short glimpse of him—his lean, taut body in the stripe of streetlamp light, his hard cock against the panes of his stomach—before he pressed himself back against John, their skin finally meeting. He was cool to the touch, a welcome relief against John’s fevered skin. John could feel it now, the insistent pulse of Sherlock against his hip, the slight dampness of his arousal.

Sherlock gathered John’s wrists into one grip, the fingers of his other hand brushing against John’s lips.

“Open.” The command sent shivers down John’s spine. Sherlock’s voice was deeply resonant, an edge to his words as if challenging John to disobey him. John’s lips parted, and Sherlock slid his fingers along his tongue, gathering the wetness. His hand dipping down between their bodies, Sherlock’s slick fingers encircled John’s cock.

John’s vision went white, the pressure almost more than he could bear. He gasped, his hips straining forward, his hands clenching into fists. Sherlock held him down while his fingers languorously stroked over John’s length. After a few leisurely strokes, he gripped both John’s cock and his own in a single loose fist, pressing them together.

John’s head swam. He could feel the throb of Sherlock against him, the almost frantic heartbeat a match to his own. Sherlock stroked them both, letting out a low growl of pleasure that had John writhing. His breath was hot against John’s neck, and without warning he laved his tongue over John’s throat. He was hovering at the edge now, Sherlock all around him, the stroking of his hand pulling over their cocks picking up as his grip on John’s wrists tightened almost painfully, the solidity of him pressing John into the mattress, his taste burning in John’s mouth. John fought against the surge threatening to engulf him, to sweep him under, Sherlock’s name dancing on his lips as he fought for breath.

And then he was there, his body seizing and then tensing, his eyes squeezing shut, crying out as a wave of release crashed through him. Above him, he felt Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, felt his hips snap forward and a warm wetness paint itself across John’s stomach.

John found himself gasping for air as he slowly came back to himself, fine tremors still wracking his frame. Somehow, Sherlock was still there, his grip relaxing on John’s wrists. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock studying him intently, his eyes smoldering.

“Well,” Sherlock rumbled, his gaze leaving John’s as he brushed his lips against the shell of John’s ear. “I found that quite enlightening. I wonder, is this a passing fascination for you? Or have I been correct in my assessment of your behavior the last few months?”

John hesitated. He felt himself beginning to lock up, awkward now as Sherlock’s body slid against his, their skin slicked with their mingled release.

Sherlock raised his head, their eyes locking again. His voice was somber. “I want the truth, John.”

“It’s not…passing,” John ground out. He let out a sharp sigh, his gaze fixing on the ceiling. Shame and embarrassment and confusion were crashing down on him, panic beginning to settle in. How was he ever going to look Sherlock in the eyes again? Every time, he would see this, would see their bodies moving against one another, would feel Sherlock’s mouth on his own, his unforgiving grip that had been so fantastically proprietary— He was going to have to move out, to find a new flat, there was so much bloody packing and rearranging to be done—

Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s jaw, tilting his head back down. His eyes held John’s captive, demanded his attention. “John.”

“What?” His tone was defensive, a sob rising in the back of his throat.

“Honestly. Sometimes you are mind-numbingly thick,” Sherlock mumbled. His hand slid beneath John to grip the back of his neck securely. “Despite your conflicted feelings on the matter, this is not passing for me. This is not some silly experiment for a case or a fanciful lark at your expense. I am done waiting, John. Patience is not my strong suit. If you find you are no longer as interested in this as you might have once thought, arrangements can be made. But do not lie to me. I _know_ you.”

John blinked. The thought that Sherlock wanted a fraction of what he did was something that had yet to really occur to John. None of his imaginings had accounted for this. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, trapped beneath Sherlock’s penetrating gaze.

“I…” John breathed, unsure of what on earth he was to say.

“Why don’t we discuss it tomorrow?” Sherlock released his grip on John’s neck, reaching down to retrieve his bathrobe. With it, he wiped them both clean before tossing it over the edge of the bed. “I’ll see you in the morning—” he said as he began to rise.

“No,” John blurted out. He hadn’t meant to, but now his hand caught Sherlock’s arm. His voice was rough as he whispered, “Stay. Just—just for tonight. We can figure out the rest tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted with something that might have been satisfaction.

Just for tonight, he decided he could pretend. He forced the tension to drain from his muscles as Sherlock curled around him, tucking him protectively against his chest. With Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, John could imagine that this was his life now, that having Sherlock pressed against him was how he fell asleep every night, that he had a lifetime of nights like these ahead of him. As his eyes slid shut, he relished the steadiness of Sherlock’s heartbeat, the rhythm of his breathing. Unlike many nights, sleep found him easily.


	4. Kindling

John was floating at the edge of wakefulness, a warmth seemingly wrapped around his body, molded to his contours. He inhaled, long and slow, savoring the flavor permeating the air, spiced with comfort and assurance. He came to gradually, taking stock of himself, his mind mapping out his bed, his room, Sherlock curled around him—

Sherlock. John had forgotten. It all came crashing back then: last night, Sherlock moaning, thrusting against him, spilling across his stomach— His eyes snapped open, his breathing growing shallow.

“Good morning, John,” came the voice from just behind his ear, gravelly with sleep, deep like the thrum of distant thunder.

“Erm,” John replied.

“Please, let’s just skip over all of the next bit, if you don’t mind. If I must inform you, you spent the night mumbling my name and pulling me closer. I know it’s going to take some emotional readjusting for you. But do try to gloss over the unimportant and annoying aspects—the guilt, the shame, slowly coming around to accept what you already know to be factually true—unnecessary, all of it. I have work to do today.”

John pressed his lips together, dipping his head in a half-nod. “Alright then, we’ll skip it,” he said. “If I may ask,” John added as Sherlock rolled from the bed to the floor, stretching his arms above his head, “when exactly did you decide you wanted— I mean, with me— all this—”

“From the very beginning I was interested in ‘all this’ as you so eloquently put it. Things have just been so busy. And I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t take it badly. I was uninterested in—” Sherlock choked off suddenly. John turned to look at him where he was standing naked in the muted morning light, one hand on the doorknob, facing away.

“In what exactly?” prompted John.

“Losing you.” Sherlock’s voice was low. He slipped out of the room before John could gather a response.


	5. Catching Sparks

The crime scene was grisly, and John clamped his handkerchief over his nose and mouth as he stood over the bathtub.

“Let it be a lesson to you not to piss off any Russian mobsters,” Lestrade commented from the threshold. “Any ideas on TOD?”

“Hard to say with the water still in there,” John replied, sinking down onto his heels. He peered through the bloody murk. “I’d say sometime late yesterday. Maybe very early this morning on the outside.” He swiveled, resting the gloved fingertips of his free hand against the mini fridge lying on its side on the bathroom tile. “Where in the bloody hell do you get enough lead shot to fill a mini fridge?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Cassandra’s comparing some samples. We’ll see what she comes up with.”

“John,” Sherlock called from the next room. Lestrade ambled away to take a phone call, and John stuck his head out of the bathroom.

“Yes?”

“I’ll need you to accompany me on an errand for a moment,” Sherlock said distractedly, his eyes unfocused as he paced back and forth between upturned items of furniture.

“Alright.” He followed as Sherlock turned and left the apartment without a word. They wound down the four flights of stairs, John struggling to keep up. They emerged blinking into the bright light of midday, Sherlock pausing at the street level door to wait for John. With John once more behind him, he walked briskly down the sidewalk and made a sharp right at the corner of the building, heading down a narrow alley.

“Where are we going?” John asked, irritation edging into his voice.

“Come along, John,” was Sherlock’s response.

Just before the alley ended in a chainlink fence, wound through with the vegetation it held back, an access door jutted from the apartment building. Sherlock stopped, turning to assess the alcove it created.

“Sherlock, what are we doing back here?” John demanded.

“In a terrible stroke of luck, our bit of fraternization last night seems to have awakened a need I can no longer ignore.”

“Really? You’ve brought me out here to neck in an alley? It’s the middle of the bloody day, Sherlock!”

“Be that as it may, this case needs to be solved. There is a killer on the loose. And the demands of my libido are inherently connected to how long it takes to catch him. I need full use of my faculties for this one, and I can’t manage with the images of you my brain is currently demanding to run in parallel.” John sputtered, but Sherlock caught him by the collar of his jacket with both hands, stepping backward to press John against the brickwork. Caught off guard, John suddenly found himself pinned, Sherlock’s lips centimeters from his own.

John’s trousers began to grow uncomfortably tight. His breathing was jagged, even as he tried to find the words to convince Sherlock that this was a bad idea, that they would get caught—

Sherlock drew closer, his breath warm on John’s mouth. “On your knees, John,” he whispered roughly.

John sunk down instantly, resting on his heels. He watched as Sherlock’s deft fingers worked open his button and zip, pulling out his already rigid cock. With one hand gripping himself by the base, Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair. Suddenly needy, John tilted his head back, opening his mouth. With a subtle smirk, Sherlock guided himself between John’s lips.

With one hand steady on the back of John’s head and the other braced against the bricks, Sherlock began to zone out, undoubtedly fixated on the details of the case. John didn’t mind. As his head bobbed up and down, he wondered at his own feelings. He had always been something of a sub in the bedroom, but it had been different with women. He craved Sherlock in a way that was foreign to him. Here he was, out in broad daylight in an alleyway, desperately sucking him off. He found he relished the way it felt to be so casually used. He loved the weight of Sherlock on his tongue, the fullness of his mouth as he took him in. He suddenly wondered at something he had heard in university once, and heaving in a breath, he pushed forward fully and swallowed, the head of Sherlock’s cock sinking smoothly to the back of his throat. To his delight, Sherlock breathed a sharp “Fuck,” his hand fisting in John’s hair.

It wasn’t much longer before Sherlock was breathing heavily, his gaze locked fully on John. Sherlock held him close as his release found him, filling the back of John’s throat. He swallowed it down without a second thought. He looked up to find Sherlock staring down at him, something like tenderness in his eyes. His fingers stroked through John’s hair, once, twice. John stared back, eyes wide, the blood pounding in his ears.

Sherlock snapped out of it. “Back to work then,” he quipped, tucking himself away. He helped John to his feet. A wry smile twisted its way over Sherlock’s mouth as he watched John’s hand dip into his jeans to adjust himself. “Fear not. I’ll take care of all that later.” He stroked his thumb along John’s cheekbone, before turning to walk briskly back down the alley. John’s heart sputtered. He shook his head to clear it, taking off at a jog to catch up with Sherlock.


End file.
